drink? Coke, coffee, water?” I reached out and shook his hand. I almost gagged. It felt like sticking my hand in an open sewer, but it gave me all the details I needed.
“I’ll take a water,” he said.
I had to keep it together. A child’s life depended on turning this creep. The problem, how to get the information to the cops watching me in the room next door without revealing how I knew.
I leaned forward in the chair, watching his eyes. “We know you took that little girl, Willy. People saw you. We even know the area where you took her. You can make it easy on yourself by giving us the address. Maybe keep you off death row.”
He scoffed. “Sure you do. You don’t know squat.”
“Ah, but we do. You were careless, Willy. We know your history, what your father did to you. I understand, Willy. What you’re doing...it isn’t your fault.”
He danced me around until my time was up, and I gave it one last shot. “Willy, have you ever considered that little girl feels exactly like you did after your father abused you? She’s hurting, Willy. You can stop the pain.”
His eyes filled with tears. He broke down and gave me the address.
The sad part was his father helped create the monster Willy became.
Naturally, the cops were curious about my knowledge of his past. I convinced them it was just lucky profiling.
What happened to those five children still haunted my dreams.
Solving that case brought me a lot of notoriety I didn’t need any calls from hurting parents across the country whom I couldn’t help. I didn’t have all the answers. I wished to God I had.
Jake and I finished breakfast in silence. I pushed back my chair, slapped his shoulder, and went to the entryway. A fast scan of the street told me I could leave. Not a patrol car in sight.
Reaching for the doorknob, I shifted back to Jake. “Thanks for breakfast. By the way, you should know. Harry London may have pictures of me inside his home, taken this morning by his security cameras.”
A deep groan from behind me reached my ears as the door clicked shut.
Hole In-The-Wall Café, Hebron
I left Jake’s place, called Amos Horne, and invited him to a late lunch. Since I stood him up on Friday, he accepted and said he’d meet me at one o’clock. We usually met at The Hole in the Wall, one of his favorite places. Appropriately named, the café looked like a dump, but a clean dump. I’d never figured out whether it was designed ambiance or just run down, but they served the best hamburgers in the free world.
In most situations, Amos would provide details on a case. I wanted to pick his brain about the disappearance of Abigail Armstrong. The department frowned on sharing police records with civilians, but Amos never worried about the rules.
I arrived early and took a seat by the window. Amos pulled his unmarked car in beside my SUV and untangled his big frame from behind the wheel. He glanced around, taking in everything at once and then sauntered into the entrance. A cop’s habit. High cheekbones and an easy grace reflected his Cherokee heritage. Amos wore his ethnicity with pride. At thirty-five, and a twelve-year veteran of the HPD, he held the distinction of being the youngest detective in the department. But then, there were only two.
I’d learned to live with it but never enjoyed the freaky nature of my gifts. The sorrow, almost pain, to discover someone I admired and trusted could have feet of clay. This probably explained why I’d only found three real friends in my lifetime.
Jake and Amos were two of the three―not perfect, but good people. Public faces seldom reveal what goes on inside. Outward confidence can hide a mass of internal turmoil. With Jake and Amos, what you saw was what you got. Jake was complicated, precise, organized and crafty, where Amos tilted to the other extreme.
Amos had developed a paunch from lack of exercise and eating the wrong foods, but the diet hadn’t affected his investigative
“I’ll take a water,” he said.
I had to keep it together. A child’s life depended on turning this creep. The problem, how to get the information to the cops watching me in the room next door without revealing how I knew.
I leaned forward in the chair, watching his eyes. “We know you took that little girl, Willy. People saw you. We even know the area where you took her. You can make it easy on yourself by giving us the address. Maybe keep you off death row.”
He scoffed. “Sure you do. You don’t know squat.”
“Ah, but we do. You were careless, Willy. We know your history, what your father did to you. I understand, Willy. What you’re doing...it isn’t your fault.”
He danced me around until my time was up, and I gave it one last shot. “Willy, have you ever considered that little girl feels exactly like you did after your father abused you? She’s hurting, Willy. You can stop the pain.”
His eyes filled with tears. He broke down and gave me the address.
The sad part was his father helped create the monster Willy became.
Naturally, the cops were curious about my knowledge of his past. I convinced them it was just lucky profiling.
What happened to those five children still haunted my dreams.
Solving that case brought me a lot of notoriety I didn’t need any calls from hurting parents across the country whom I couldn’t help. I didn’t have all the answers. I wished to God I had.
Jake and I finished breakfast in silence. I pushed back my chair, slapped his shoulder, and went to the entryway. A fast scan of the street told me I could leave. Not a patrol car in sight.
Reaching for the doorknob, I shifted back to Jake. “Thanks for breakfast. By the way, you should know. Harry London may have pictures of me inside his home, taken this morning by his security cameras.”
A deep groan from behind me reached my ears as the door clicked shut.
Hole In-The-Wall Café, Hebron
I left Jake’s place, called Amos Horne, and invited him to a late lunch. Since I stood him up on Friday, he accepted and said he’d meet me at one o’clock. We usually met at The Hole in the Wall, one of his favorite places. Appropriately named, the café looked like a dump, but a clean dump. I’d never figured out whether it was designed ambiance or just run down, but they served the best hamburgers in the free world.
In most situations, Amos would provide details on a case. I wanted to pick his brain about the disappearance of Abigail Armstrong. The department frowned on sharing police records with civilians, but Amos never worried about the rules.
I arrived early and took a seat by the window. Amos pulled his unmarked car in beside my SUV and untangled his big frame from behind the wheel. He glanced around, taking in everything at once and then sauntered into the entrance. A cop’s habit. High cheekbones and an easy grace reflected his Cherokee heritage. Amos wore his ethnicity with pride. At thirty-five, and a twelve-year veteran of the HPD, he held the distinction of being the youngest detective in the department. But then, there were only two.
I’d learned to live with it but never enjoyed the freaky nature of my gifts. The sorrow, almost pain, to discover someone I admired and trusted could have feet of clay. This probably explained why I’d only found three real friends in my lifetime.
Jake and Amos were two of the three―not perfect, but good people. Public faces seldom reveal what goes on inside. Outward confidence can hide a mass of internal turmoil. With Jake and Amos, what you saw was what you got. Jake was complicated, precise, organized and crafty, where Amos tilted to the other extreme.
Amos had developed a paunch from lack of exercise and eating the wrong foods, but the diet hadn’t affected his investigative
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